


Cute as F*ck

by GretchenSinister



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:19:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1284196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandy and Pitch, getting it on. Pitch feels kind of guilty about how much cute lil' Sandy turns him on; Sandy doesn't feel guilty about anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cute as F*ck

**Author's Note:**

> Hooray! It's Spring Break!

            Sanderson Mansnoozie was cute. This was a given throughout all of time and space, and more reliable a constant than the speed of light. The Guardians knew this. So did Pitch.

In fact, Sanderson Mansnoozie looked so adorably innocent at all other times that Pitch couldn’t help but feel vaguely, pervasively, guilty as he looked down at Sandy the way he was now. Sandy looked up at him from under heavy eyelids, his pupils blown wide and the gold of his eyes, so shining and hard in battle, melted to something much softer, darker, and sweeter, like autumn honey.

Against black sheets, his hair flowed away from his face not in the usual spikes like a stylized sun, not in a smooth nimbus like a halo (thank the stars, that would make this whole situation even more troubling), but instead in messy curlicues and arabesques, such as could only be produced for the Sandman via perfect relaxation, far too much attention from long gray fingers in the silky glitter of those locks, and just a little bit of sweat. Pitch was never sure why he bothered with that. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to not sweat? To not give Pitch yet another indication of how very warm he was, to not give Pitch another taste to find on his body, to not give Pitch more little surprising slicknesses as he worked his desperate hands over that soft golden skin? That is to say, wouldn’t it have been more _merciful_?

            Sandy licks his lips, swollen and kissedbitten rosy as the dawn, ever so slowly, enjoying their tenderness—if it wasn’t for other things Pitch knows, he would say that Sandy’s favorite thing to do was to get kissed, hard, for hours on end—and as Pitch watches the tip of that dark golden tongue, wet and glistening, trace around a mouth quirking up at the edges into a lazy, openmouthed smile, he knows that Sandy has no intention of being merciful. Of course, he never does.

            Dreamsand brushes warm against Pitch’s flanks, and he shudders and blushes even harder than before. The shapes it forms are technically abstract, but, hovering above this bed and reaching where Sandy’s hands can’t, every organic ripple seems astonishingly, enthusiastically obscene.

            Keeping his eyes on Pitch, Sandy takes a deep, languid breath, his eyes sliding even further closed and his belly and chest rising and falling smoothly, and it’s pure luxury, all that breath, all that flesh, and Pitch knows Sandy only does it to get Pitch looking where he wants him to, but still he can’t resist. His eyes skim over his chest, pausing on nipples just two shades darker than the rest of his skin, pert and demanding attention. Pitch knows well enough from other encounters that they’re just as sensitive as Sandy wants them to be, which is very.

            Pitch may have been a being of considerable willpower at some time, but that was long before Sandy. Breaking through any guilt and deviating from any plan, he bends down to give one of those nipples a swift lick before backing up again. His reward is the sight of sleepy eyes opening wide for a moment and of a slightly gap-toothed bite capturing one sweet lip.

            He tries for a shark-like grin as his gaze continues downwards over the peachy curve of Sandy’s belly and onto the eager jut of his cock, perfectly formed and flushed the same color as his lips, though Pitch hasn’t yet devoted the full attention of his mouth there yet. He wants to, though. Despite knowing it’s probably a terrible weakness, an unacceptable flaw, really, to quite frequently want to be orally pleasuring your greatest enemy, the sweet, cheerful, sarcastic protector of children’s dreams. Not really something you wanted to get out to your other enemies. Did they ever even consider the fact that Sandy had a cock? And, moreover, a very pretty one?

            Pitch pushed the thoughts away. They were utterly irrelevant now, especially as, if Pitch was reading the sand correctly, Pitch’s mouth wasn’t what Sandy wanted right now. Pitch felt his face burn and his breath catch in his throat as he worked one finger, then two, into the dreamweaver. Every time he did this—no, every time _they_ did this, he couldn’t prevent certain thoughts from rushing through his mind. _I shouldn’t be doing this to you. I shouldn’t be doing this with anyone. You shouldn’t be doing this with anyone._

           

Pitch had voiced similar thoughts to Sandy when the Guardian had approached him all too soon after his most recent failed bid for world domination, signing about Freud and sublimation and displacement in a way that was first baffling, then alarming when he started to use the nightmaresand arrow as an example. Sandy had refused to leave his lair until Pitch had truly considered what he had said. It had been rather ridiculous, Pitch remembered: he had thought it over intently, scowling at Sandy until his mind started to wander in small, reluctant steps around the precise look in Sandy’s honey eyes, what could make him smirk so knowingly, the thought of what his hair would look like mussed, and the curiosity about what exactly his sand-robes were hiding. His face had fallen into almost a comical expression of shock when he realized that yes, Sandy was right, and shooting him with an arrow was only vaguely related to what he wanted to do with the little Guardian. Very badly. And right now.

            He had protested, of course. It wasn’t right. This didn’t mean that he was going to play nice with the other Guardians. He wasn’t going to do this—if the others caught him and Sandy together they might literally kill him this time. Sandy had listened patiently. Then, when Pitch had finished his protests, he suggested that they do something that would make it clear, if they got caught this first time, that Pitch was not the one calling all the shots.

            Pitch’s body had agreed before his mind had finished deciphering the sand shapes.

            That beginning, Pitch had thought later, had probably been chosen specifically by Sandy in order to impair his better judgment later, as in the time when Sandy, sitting in Pitch’s lap with his short legs to either side of Pitch’s narrow hips, had broken one of their long, lazy kisses in order to back away and look up at Pitch with a wide-eyed, innocent expression—while at the same time wiggling his rear against Pitch’s groin in the most non-innocent way possible. All thoughts of caution and should or should not had flown out of Pitch’s mind, and in short order Sandy’s dreamsand clothes were scattered all over the floor, Pitch’s shadow robes had dissipated into the general darkness, and Pitch was pushing slowly into Sandy, who at a time like this, had the nerve to keep his look of guileless enjoyment as a delicate orangey blush bloomed on his cheeks (and as he was most certainly helping things along with magic). By the time Pitch was fully seated within him—and Sandy could take him, of course he could, though Pitch noted—how could he not?—that once Sandy was feeling every inch of his length his expression had gotten a whole lot less innocent, though it was even more obvious that he was enjoying this.

            Just for a moment, they had paused like that, Pitch raking his gaze over every inch of Sandy’s creamy skin, almost getting lost in the small O formed by his plump lips, and finally falling all the way down to where he could get a good view of Sandy’s cock, which throbbed as he looked (and wasn’t that the filthiestmostdelightful thing Pitch had ever seen?), as well as the point where his own entered Sandy’s body. He had gulped in the midst of breaths already edging towards panting. He had never been harder, never been hotter, never felt more like a monster. And then Sandy had curled his little toes against his sides and clenched around him, and Pitch decided that if he was going to be a monster he was going to be a damn good one.

            Later, Sandy had seemed to agree vehemently with that decision.

 

            Tonight, even after so many times together, Pitch still couldn’t completely shake those feelings. He still blushed with guilt, with shock, admitting to himself that yes, he _was_ going to fuck cute little Sanderson Mansnoozie—that he had never wanted to do anything so badly.

            Cute little Sanderson Mansnoozie, of course, never showed any signs of embarrassment or shame. He simply relished having Pitch above him, below him, behind him, but most of all, within him. In contrast to  Pitch’s blush, a soft glow tended to suffuse his skin as he forgot himself, as Pitch pounded into him, as Pitch stroked him in time with his thrusts, as Pitch contorted himself so he would be able to leave a truly fantastic love-bite on his neck—which was a sign that Pitch was forgetting himself, too, since Sandy never bothered to heal these. If they showed above the edge of his robes, so be it. As he had explained to Pitch, he neither had to explain his trophies nor hide them. “But would the Guardians even believe that you’re collecting these kinds of…trophies?” Pitch had asked, his voice going embarrassingly high by the end of the sentence. Sandy had merely shrugged. It didn’t really matter to him at all.

            Sweet dreamsand and salty sweat under his tongue, Pitch groaned as he felt Sandy’s small hands reach up to tangle in his hair. “Don’t you dare pull,” he murmured, “You know what that does to me, and you’re not even close.”

            Surprisingly, Sandy obeyed for once, though he did send coils of dreamsand to quickly slither over all of Pitch’s limbs and around his torso—Pitch was never sure how closely connected Sandy was to the sand, but in situations like this, he suspected it might serve him as extra limbs. Which, like Sandy pulling his hair, was something he really couldn’t think about right now.

            He pushed himself up to get a better look at Sandy, who reluctantly let go of his hair as he did so. Sandy’s face was the picture of unrepentant ecstasy, and in his utter shamelessness, in the way his fingers twisted in the sheets and the way he tilted his hips so Pitch could find the best angle, Pitch felt his own guilt and arousal spike once again. Why should it happen that way? Pitch had no idea. He knew he shouldn’t question it when the being writhing beneath him appeared to have no concept of a guilty pleasure. Sometimes Pitch thought Sandy wouldn’t even balk at making love in front of all the other Guardians and the Man in the Moon himself. Sandy enjoyed him, even claimed to love him (though Pitch had a difficult time crediting that) and saw absolutely nothing wrong in what they were doing.

            Even including all the sweat-slicked flesh, even including the marks left by shark teeth on satiny gold skin. Even including, as Sandy grabbed double handfuls of Pitch’s hair again and tugged, the thick pulse of the Boogeyman coming inside of cute little Sanderson Mansnoozie’s cute little ass. Even including long gray fingers caressing soft plump thighs straddling a narrow gray waist as one pretty hand pinched a pert nipple and the other stroked a hot rosy cock all too performatively. Even including eyes both dark and luminous narrowing to slits and a smile that would have been wicked on anyone else’s face, as, with an unforgettably gorgeous full-body shudder, cute little Sanderson Mansnoozie came all over the Boogeyman’s chest, one pearly drop even hitting his chin.

            Even including how, after admiring the sight for long enough to make Pitch blush again, make his cock twitch again, cute little Sanderson Mansnoozie licked him clean with no reservation, cheekily kissing him full on the mouth when he was finished.

            Which was why, after all that, Sandy could curl up against Pitch’s side and fall asleep in moments with a sweet little, smug little, satiated little smile pulling at his lips.

            His own eyes falling closed, Pitch wrapped himself around Sandy, burying his face in soft golden hair. This, at least, he didn’t feel guilty about. Sandy was definitely meant to be hugged.

            But even with the guilt…he smiled and breathed in Sandy’s faint sweet musk…he can’t be _too_ upset that Sandy also thought he was meant to be fucked.


End file.
